


the adventure of a lifetime

by catroulette



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Case Fic, Gen, kind of??, no romance but there is tension, set before/during season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23620336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catroulette/pseuds/catroulette
Summary: Sherlock and John meet in A Study in Pink, except... John's a murderer?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Kudos: 3





	the adventure of a lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't posted for sherlock in like. years but i wrote this for school!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i hope you enjoy anyways :~)

Sherlock shakes the newspaper out in his hands, peering down at the front page article. A huge inky title fills the top of the page, with a picture of a crime scene eclipsing what space is left. A few bars of text frame the grainy photo. The title of the article: **Assassinations in London?!**

Lestrade’s coming. Right on time. His heavy footsteps on the creaky stairs grow louder and louder until the door bursts open to reveal the detective inspector whose breathing is too labored for someone who had only climbed a single flight of stairs. 

“Where?”

Lestrade takes a second to gulp in some air. “Just outside of London. Big grassy field, no one around…” Another second of huffing and puffing. “You coming?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Obviously.” He sweeps around the flat, slipping his phone into the pocket of his coat and tying his scarf around his neck. And just for decorum’s sake, he runs his hands through his hair before he heads down the stairs and into Lestrade’s car. 

Lestrade fills Sherlock in on the details as they head over to the scene. “There was one victim, most likely in their mid 40’s. They received a clean shot through the head. The perpetrator removed every part of the body that could be used to identify them, so we have no idea who the victim actually is. We found another body in a similar state a week ago.”

Sherlock frowns, jerking in his seat to turn towards Lestrade. “You should have called me when you found the first body. This is _brilliant_. Unlike all those other tedious cases you throw at me.”

Lestrade sighs. “Well, you’re here now.” The rest of the drive is silent. 

The scene, in the middle of a grassy field just outside of London, is still busy when they pull up. There’s yellow tape and forensics investigators surrounding the body and even more investigators on the grass and near the road. When Lestrade brings the car to a stop, Sherlock immediately pushes the door open and heads straight for the body. The abandoned detective inspector just shakes his head and walks towards one of the investigators. 

As always, Sherlock looks for the obvious hints that the professionals missed that they _shouldn’t have missed, how could they have missed this faint imprint of a hand on the victim’s ankle? They were clearly returning from lunch, there’s napkins from a diner in his pocket. And a receipt, too. Amateurs, all of them._ With one last twirl in the middle of the scene to make the ends of his coat flap in the brisk wind, he marches back to the station car. Lestrade hastily follows after him, balancing a box of plastic wrapped evidence in his arms. Sherlock catches his reddened nose and flushed cheeks before turning the collar up on his own thicker coat and retreating into his mind palace. 

They arrive at Scotland Yard in what seems like no time at all. The parking lot of the station is quiet, though the occasional dripping of water cuts through the silence. Lestrade is the first to speak. “Well? What do you think we should do now?” 

Sherlock glances at Lestrade. “Wait,” he says, before promptly exiting the car and sweeping out of the lot.

Lestrade gapes in indignation, a scoff escaping his throat. “The nerve of him…” he trails off, his head slumping onto the headrest. 

  
  
  


John Watson. 

Recently home from the military, served as an army doctor. Studied at St Bartholomew’s Hospital. The detective knows all this from Mike Stamford. He’d seen and been forced to hear Stamford’s poor attempts at small talk a few times at St Bartholomew’s while conducting his own personal experiments. 

But John Watson. Was it too much of a coincidence? There was no such thing as a coincidence. John Watson could have, hypothetically, returned from war, and within a week or two, committed his first murder. 

Only a man with experience in the military could have made such a clean shot. 

So John Watson, then. 

It’s easy, as most things are, for Sherlock to figure out who the next target will be. There’s a clear pattern: all of the victims were ex-military and had committed various crimes relating to their ex-military status. He sits in a cafe adjacent to a restaurant that the target often frequents for around two weeks. The only slightly difficult part is looking out for both the target and John at the same time. Sherlock knows John will scope out his target, just as Sherlock is looking for John. It’s the fifteenth day of the stakeout when he sees John enter the cafe. Sherlock feels a sudden pit in his stomach, which he pushes away with a shake of his head. There can be no room for weakness. Not when he’s endured the hard, aching seats and the mundane chit chat of the cafe patrons for fourteen consecutive days. 

Standing up slowly, Sherlock shifts the note he’d stored in his pocket from the beginning of his stakeout into his hand. Move around that chair. Avoid the strangely angular corners of that table.

“John Watson?” Sherlock asks, folding his hands behind his back. The note is held loosely in between his fingers.

“Yes? Who are you?” John’s on high alert. His pupils immediately dilate and his eyes grow slightly wider. 

Sherlock leans forward until he can whisper into John’s ear. “I know what you’re here for. Follow my instructions and nothing will happen to you, I promise.” He slips the note into John’s hand and strides out of the cafe without a second glance. A taxi takes him back to the flat. He’s expecting a guest. 

  
  
  


It’s agony waiting for the hours to pass in Sherlock’s flat. He feels like he’s cooped up in a cage that is shrinking with every passing hour. Just when he thinks he can’t stand it for another minute, his doorbell rings. 

“I’ve got it!” Sherlock hollers down the stairs as he stomps down them. God forbid Mrs. Hudson greet _this_ guest. 

He swings the door wide open to reveal John Watson. He stands on the porch, shifting his weight from one foot to another, clasping his hands behind his back like he’s standing at attention. _He’s got a cane dangling between his fingers_ , Sherlock notes, _most likely for his psychosomatic limp_. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” John asks. His voice is clear and strong. 

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock steps aside. The door is slammed shut before Sherlock bounds up the stairs with John following close behind. 

In the living room, there are papers strewn around, mugs of half finished tea acting as paperweights for those papers, and at least two knives stuck in various furniture in the room. “It’s a skull,” John says matter-of-factly, pointing at the skull on the mantelpiece with his cane. 

“Friend of mine. Well, when I say friend…” Sherlock’s grin is lopsided. He settles down in his black armchair. 

John quirks his lips up at that, but only for a second before his neutral expression returns. “So. You’re…” He pulls the note out of his pocket and reads off of it. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“I am.”

They stare at each other for a beat, both attempting with all their might to figure out what the other is thinking. John stuffs the note back into his pocket.

“Well, John. You must be wondering why I called you here.”

“That’s the understatement of the year.” 

Sherlock steeples his fingers. “You’re not here to be arrested, as I promised you.” John is still staring at him with a look that conveys both wonderment and bewilderment. “You interest me, John Watson. I have not notified the police about you and I do not plan to do so in the future. You are safe here.” 

John shakes his head. “You’re a madman!” He laughs roughly before pacing around the room, stopping at the couch to carefully take a seat. He leans his cane against the cushions before he speaks again. “I still don’t understand why I’m here.”

“You weren’t killing those people for your own sick enjoyment, were you? Not like the other murderers I’ve caught, and I assure you, I’ve caught many. They’re all boring. But you, John Watson, you weren’t doing it for fun. No, you were doing it to feel something, anything at all.”

Sherlock pauses for dramatic effect before continuing. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Sorry, what?” John’s words turn sharp. He has his hands folded together, but his knuckles are turning white. Sherlock stands slowly while maintaining direct eye contact. 

“When you served, was it in Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John refuses to meet Sherlock’s eyes now. “Afghanistan. How did you—”

“The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins. You needed that, didn’t you? After you came back from war. You missed it.”

John’s leg is shaking now. “How could you possibly know all this?” He draws in a tight breath. “No one knows what I did.”

Sherlock only smiles mysteriously. “I know a lot more than you’d think, John Watson.” 

John hangs his head. His breathing is heavy. “What do you want, Sherlock Holmes?”

“I want you to join me.” 

John’s head snaps up. 

“Cases with me are never boring, I can promise you that. You’ll never be without an adrenaline rush again.” Sherlock’s eyes are shining, brimming with excitement. “I want you with me. I could use someone who can shoot as clean a shot as you did. The police won’t know what you’ve done, they’re a bunch of idiots anyways, they’ll never figure it out. And, and you could live here!” Sherlock throws his arms up as if to display the apartment. “I’ve been looking for a flatmate.” 

John’s mouth hangs open. “You really are a madman.”

Sherlock smiles again, but more genuinely this time. “Is that a yes?”

“We’ve only just met, and you want me to move in with you?”

Sherlock tilts his head. “Do you mind the violin?”

John exhales out a laugh. “No, not really.”

Sherlock beams. “Well, it’s settled then. Welcome to 221B Baker Street, John Watson.”


End file.
